* * * * *

April 22d.

I am happy to-night; I am a little bit drunk.

To-day was one day in fifty. Why should it be? Sometimes I have but to
spread my wings to the wind. Yesterday I might have torn my hair out, and
that glory would not have come to me. But to-day I was filled with it--it
lived in me and burned in me--I had but to go on and go on.

The Captive! It was the burst of rage--the first glow in the ashes of
despair. I was walking up and down the room for an hour, thundering it to
myself. I have not gotten over the joy of it yet: _"Thou in thy mailed
insolence!"_

I wonder if any one who reads those thirty lines will realize that they
meant eight hours of furious toil on my part!

* * * * *

Stone by stone I build it.

The whole possibility of a scene--that is what I pant for, always; that
it should be all there, and yet not a line to spare; compact, solid,
each phrase coming like a blow; and above all else, that it should be
inevitable! When you stand upon the height of your being, and behold the
thing with all your faculties--the thing and the phrase are one, and one to
all eternity.